


Carefully, He’s a Hero

by SwoodMaxProductions



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [17]
Category: Dead Cells (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Attack, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Creature Whump, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Near Drowning, Self-Doubt, Survivor Guilt, Whump, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28253457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwoodMaxProductions/pseuds/SwoodMaxProductions
Summary: (Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Drowning)The Collector nearly being drowned by a mutated creature mobilizes the surviving residents of the Stilt Village.
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1500902
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Carefully, He’s a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah the title came from a Spider-Man meme watchu gon do

The wooden boardwalk creaked ominously under the sickle-clawed feet of the man known only as the Collector. 

It had been a routine trip: delivering what supplies he could, checking on the survivors, see if anything was working against the ravages of the Malaise. Of course, nothing was working as well as he’d hoped… It made him feel guilty that the villagers liked him so well. Most of them were always happy to see him, likely because he  _ cared. _

He was hope for so many. Maintaining the Havens, seeking the cure for the Malaise, even the occasional cull of the zombies. It was… terrifying, to be honest. And these people needed all the aid they could get.

Without warning, darkness erupted from the blood-red waters below. With lightning speed it seized the Collector, pulling his legs out from under him to send him slamming into the rotted planks and dragging him, screaming, into the harbor.

He had no time to even fill his lungs, pulled beneath the murky water by a vast creature, likely mutated by the Malaise. Its grip was like iron, and freeing his legs was out of the question. His hands frantically clawed at the seabed, desperate for any purchase against his aquatic assailant— and finding none.

Octopus. It was some kind of octopus. Or was supposed to have been, had the Malaise not twisted it. He couldn’t see it through the murky waters, but its rubbery visegrip was enough. The suckers on its tentacles cut cruelly into his ankles as he struggled. He was running out of air.

The Collector thrashed desperately as another tentacle fastened itself around one of his arms, his chest on fire and his vision fading. This was it. Consciousness was already slipping through his fingers. He had no way to get free, no way to get his bearings. No way to tell if he was imagining a harpoon breaching the surface or the tendrils releasing him as another grip pulled him back toward the surface. 

But the Collector just didn’t have the oxygen to keep fighting any longer. He was already slipping away. His mind abandoned him, and left him to drown.

~~~

Consciousness returned with an agonized coughing fit, and the Collector slumped to the boardwalk, gasping for breath. Looking down at him was a very concerned Sl’gyeth, the eldritch fisherman who slithered from the sea to trade with the villagers.

“Sssafe,” he gurgled.

“Th— gh, thank you…!” the Collector managed to wheeze.

The mutated octopus lay dead beside them, slain and retrieved by Sl’gyeth’s harpoon. No doubt it would make a feast for the hungry townspeople. 

“Safe,” Sl’gyeth nodded, not knowing many words from their language.

“My god— Collector!”

He managed to shakily push himself up off the boardwalk a bit, and was met with a group of villagers, all  _ very _ relieved to see him alive. He slumped back to the boardwalk, instinctively pulling his sodden hood back up.

There was a cacophony of concern from the shaken villagers. They asked what happened, if he was alright. Calloused, but gentle hands helped the badly shaken alchemist awkwardly to his feet. He was the one who had cared about them, and because of that, they cared about him.

“I’m— I’m fine, thank you.”

“Here, we’ll need t’ get those cleaned up,” fussed an old man. 

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and a canteen from his belt. Drinkable water was a precious commodity nowadays, and the Collector felt guilty, like it was being wasted on him. But the water of the harbor, stained blood red with anomalous algae, was notorious for seeping infection into injuries, and the gashes left by the mutated octopus would be no exception.

“C’mon, here, Collector. Think we’ll need to stitch that one up. Got a kettle, needles, thread. You’ll be alrigh’.”

The old man put his arm around him, gently ushering the Collector into his house.

He hadn’t been expecting this outpouring of care. He assumed that many of the townspeople would hate him. Distrust him. But he’d been the brightest point of hope for not just them, but the whole island. They saw him suffer with them, pushing himself further and further, devastated by every patient he lost.

He watched the freshly sterilized needle stitch the larger wounds shut.

“Collector,” the old man grunted, “Yer a good man. The King’s men never treated anybody like this, much less us out here. You didn’t give up. An’... An’ that’s why I know you can save this land.”

“Th-thank… you— I…”

He nodded to the Collector, looking him dead in the eyes.

“You mark my words, sir, you’re more of a hero than I think you know.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Listen I fucking love shit like this. I love it.


End file.
